Star Blog

End of the week. Sitting here hot and spaced out, looking at some of the stuff that's drifted over my desk this week... A good review of Star Trippin' in the new Classic Rock. Written by my old Kerrang! editor, Geoff 'Beefy' Barton. 'A real star trip down memory lane,' he calls it. It certainly is for me and Geoff.

It's weird how it's gone between me and Geoff over the years. He was the geezer who gave me my break, when I was 19 and looking for a way into the easy life, and he was the Reviews Editor on Sounds. I use to write with a dictionary by my side in those days. But then, I grew up reading the NME, whaddaya expect?

Years went by and Geoff and I ended up on Kerrang! We'd both of us outstayed our welcome at Sounds, though for very different reasons. I think we both saw Kerrang! as our last chance and were determined to make the most of it - though again in different ways. He was like the desk chief who gives the maverick cop 48 hours to finish the job - or else. Needless to say, I was the maverick cop. Then more years went by where we had no contact whatsoever, before it was my turn to be the one bringing him in from out of the cold, rescuing him from a car mag and placing him on the pedestal he currently resides on at Classic Rock. Now it looks like we're going to be working together again. Funny old world etc. (More of which anon.) I'll put some quotes up from his review on this site as soon as I track down Webmistress Julie (don't know how to do it on my own).

The book has also been picking up some very nice reviews from various bods on the internet. Like Selina White at www.highwayzero.co.uk, who sent me the link along with a very nice covering note which read: 'Top work! Best read I've had in ages! Now I need to sell my soul to be able to write like you...' Be careful what you wish for, Selina. Also got one from Joe Matera in Australia, who writes for various guitar mags but reviewed the book on his own site, www.joematera.com, giving it five stars and describing it as 'This year's most essential rock read'. I wouldn't quite go that far, Joe, but my thanks all the same. You loony.

It's interesting too how many people seem to have come upon either the book or this blog via Ross Halfin's website. Including Marillion fan (but not Genesis) Colin Irwin, blog addict Jose Velez from Puerto Rico, Simon (Ross doesn't like me) Fellows, Stuart (Never read Kerrang!, just love the book) Collins, and many, many others. If I'm not careful Ross will start invoicing me...

OK, that's it for this week's love-in. It's Friday night, it's hot, come on, we should all be doing something better than sitting here at the computer. As my very old and handsome mate David Coverdale once said to me, there's a lot of ladies out there and they ALL need LOVIN'...

Long, hot, funny, heavy but mainly good day running around from one meeting to another in London. Should have been home hours ago but somehow just couldn't get it together. Finally, I'm here. Too tired and hungry and in need of simple staring into space right now to try and write about it, except to say that Star Trippin' should be hitting the first of the shops in the next week or so. It will still be cheaper to buy it via this website. On the other hand, it will also be very nice to see it sitting on the proper bookshelves out there in the actual rather than virtual world.

I'm rather proud, a bit like a parent seeing its child going to school for the first time. Or some such. Actually, I'm too fucked right now to know what to think. This thing is taking on a life of its own. Not that I will have much time to enjoy it. I've got to get up early in the morning and write another begging letter to the bank. Ah, the extreme joy-cum-total-fear of being an independent publisher...

A day of two halves - and strictly no phones. The first half I spent hunkered down at my desk, answer-machine on while I tried to get some writing done. The second half out in the fresh air, mobile phone deliberately left behind while I tried to remember what it was like to spend some 'quality time' with my wife and children. We live quite close to a very nice park - two parks actually - but this was virtually the first time all of us have visited it together since we moved to this house last year. So that's what it's like to be human...

I needed it actually after the day I'd had. For various reasons I found myself having to wade through two of the strangest, least alluring albums it has been my lot to sit through for some time. The first, an expanded 2CD version of 'Two Sides Of The Moon', the godawful Keith Moon 'solo' album from 1975. Moony was many things - a brilliant drummer for The Who, a terrible father to his daughter, a wit and a shit all rolled into one, bless him - but a singer he most definitely was not. Thankfully, having written about it now, I feel sure I will never need to play this record again.

The second was the Lucifer Rising 'original soundtrack' CD by Bobby Beausoleil and his Freedom Orchestra - in reality a bunch of old jailbirds ('freedom', geddit, worra laff). Bobby is the ex-Manson hanger-on who has spent the last near-40 years behind bars in California for his part in the murder of one Gary Hinman (either a music teacher or a drug dealer, depending on whose account you're reading). And Lucifer Rising is of course the occult movie made by Kenneth Anger that originally featured music by one Jimmy Page, a slightly more famous muso than Bobby B. (And with somewhat less time on his hands back then, which may partly explain why he never saw the job through.)

And what of the music? Oh gawd... take some acid, light some candles (black ones preferably), draw the curtains and invite a few prostitutes dressed as nuns over for the evening and it would provide the perfect party soundtrack... probably. But sitting here with the sun blazing through the window with just a smouldering laptop for company and it's a different story. I mean, this shit's OK, man, but you can't help feel it sorta went outta style a looooong time ago. Even for devoted Lucifer-is-the-light liggers like Ken.

Then again I could be wrong... what's that shadow I see in the corner of the room... could it be... no! Noooooo!! YES! It's Axl, they've let him out! Run for your miserable lives...!!!

Well, well, hold the front page. Axl Rose gets arrested and thrown in jail. Who woulda thunk it? I'm guessing you'll have read or heard the grisly details by now so I'll skip all that. I just wanna say - he bit a hotel security guard's leg!?! Can you imagine how that happened? The guy must have had him in some smart kinda headlock. Definitely in the face-down position anyway. Poor Waxy. So misunderstood. And those Swedish police! The most vicious thugs in the world! Everyone knows that. How else do you explain them banging-up the Sweet Child like that? And him just a normal, hotel-wrecking, drunken, foul-mouthed, everyday kinda rock star. With a weave. And botox. Allegedly.

Seriously, though, you couldn't make it up. So now the whole tour's in jeopardy. Tut tut, whatever next? Maybe the rest of the band should replace him. After all, everyone else from the in-no-way-important original band has been replaced. Why not the ageing singer? Get themselves a whole new model. Maybe one of those big jessies from Backyard Babies. At least they'd manage to get the poxy album out then...

My thanks, by the way, to Patrik Hellstrom and Francois Carballal, both of whom kindly emailed me the story this morning. Laugh? I'm still wiping the tears from my eyes.

Thanks also to Sandra Kilcullen, who has kindly been sending me info about my new favourite artist, Evelyn Glennie. Maybe Evelyn could fly out to Sweden and give Waxy a lesson in how to play properly when you can't hear what the rest of the world is saying...

Spent the whole afternoon immersing myself in the folklore surrounding Keith Moon, in preparation for a phone interview I was supposed to be doing this evening with Peter 'Dougal' Butler, the guy who worked as Moon's driver/minder/best mate between 1967-77. Their reissuing the Keith Moon solo album 'Two Sides Of The Moon' as a 2CD thing with about 30 extra tracks - music, dialogue, fucking about, outtakes, the usual ragbag. I really fancied this as, like most people my age, I always admired The Who, and of course can't help but be fascinated by Moon the Loon - even though I know the truth is much (much) sadder than the fiction. I also heard Dougal was a 'good bloke', which always helps too.

Anyway, after scribbling silly notes and mentally limbering up for hours when I finally phoned Dougal he'd forgotten he was supposed to be doing an interview and asked me - nicely, like - if we could do it tomorrow instead. Well, of course we can. But what an anti-climax.

So instead, I was looking through the Inbox of this site and decided to answer a few questions and reflect on a few comments that have drifted this way over the past couple of weeks. Judging by the sort of thing now coming in it seems there is quite a, er, cross-section of people out there now reading this twaddle. When I first started doing it, mainly I got well-wishers and people that had been reading me for years, finally getting the chance to give me an ear-bashing of their own.

Then, as the thing got more popular, it seemed to reach a new circle of people - those that have also apparently been reading me for years but for whatever reason can't stand me. Hate mail is so hilarious though, especially the ones that GO like THIS and THEN LIKE this and SUDDENLY JUST explode WITH hate!!! They do love their exclamation marks these nutters. Reminds me of some of the more useless heavy metal writers I've worked with over the years.

Now, for some extraordinary reason, the popularity of the blog has travelled beyond even that weird outer-circle and we are suddenly into the far-out realm of women who send pictures of themselves in their underwear. Naturally, I'm not against such things in principle, but I do wonder what message it is I'm meant to infer from this. There was one today that came with no words, not even a name, just a snail's-eye view from behind of some bird in her underwear. A sort of looking up through the cracks, if you know what I mean. I mean, it's all very well, but what I really want to know is: did she buy a book? Or is she perhaps just showing her appreciation of this site? Or perhaps just some sort of exuberant view of life in general?

Awright... back to some of those questions. Jay from Chiswick, west London, asks if I will ever write a follow-up to my book Paranoid? Yes, I will. When, though, is the big question. I would like to do it now but the not-so small matter of paying for the roof over my growing family's heads takes precedence and so I am committed to churning out the sort of stuff that pays the bills. But I have brought this attention to the bank vault of my brother and he assures me that if Star Trippin' ever actually makes any money a Paranoid II - or 2 Paranoid (what do you think?) - will the very next item on his agenda. This should also please Janelle Ladina from Atlanta, Georgia, who urges me to do something other than more rock biographies as, she says, 'You have the ability to touch people and make an imprint'. As long as I don't have to touch or make an imprint on anyone's bottom I might give it a go...

There are also more than a few from people who simply want to have a moan about New Guns N' Roses. Or more precisely, Axl. (No one ever writes about the rest of the so-called band, which says a lot right there.) Peter Wilson exemplifies the tone when he sarcastically points out how fitting it is that Axl has his lyrics on an autocue onstage as what he is doing these days amounts to fronting a karaoke band. Personally, I think what he's doing is worse than that. If only he would just come out and admit he's just a solo artist and that the 'band' are just hired hands, doing what they're told, we could all just leave him to get on with it - on his own in some club somewhere.

But if you want to know what the most interesting message is I received today from a blog-reader it was this: 'Evelyn Glennie - did you know she is also deaf?' No, I did not! But if that's the case it makes what she does all the more eerie and astonishing. 'Percussionist' hardly describes her. Musical messenger from the Gods would be more accurate. Thank you, to whoever sent me that (they neglected to leave their name). It's that kind of info that makes it all worthwhile. I'll have to ask Dougal tomorrow what Moony would have made of that...

Spent Saturday writing the sleeve notes for the Judas Priest best-of CD that's coming out later this year. It forced me to sit back and think about all the times I've seen them play over the years. The first time was back in 1978. They were playing in Wolverhampton, I think, it was a Friday and for some reason the record company thought it would be a good idea if I drove up to the show from London in a limo with Rob Halford.

Rob is a very intelligent, friendly guy but we had never met before and the band had just received a terrible review of their new album in Sounds (the music paper I wrote for back then). So the atmosphere was stilted, to say the least. I seem to recall we spent most of the journey staring out of the windows in silence.

When we got there it was raining and Rob made the limo stop outside Woolworth's in the High Street while someone ran inside to buy some Y-fronts for him. As soon as we got to the gig he scarpered, leaving me at the mercy of Glenn Tipton and KK Downing, neither of whom was much friendlier. I found out later they had all convinced themselves I was "some punk writer" sent to do a hatchet job on them.

I really enjoyed the show that night though - it wasn't every day you saw the singer of a band come onstage on a motorbike, brandishing a whip - and once it became clear I was determined to enjoy myself even if they weren't, things finally loosened up and, in time honoured rock'n'roll 'media-communications style', we all got roaring drunk together back at the hotel.

As the years passed our paths crossed again many times. And even though I occasionally found myself taking the piss - I had a phase after about 10 years in the biz when taking the piss was all I could manage - they were never less than gentlemen whenever we met. I especially remember well the time at Rock in Rio II in January 1991 when they blew Guns N' Roses clean off the stage, despite the in-no-way-insecure Waxy stopping them from using half their stage-show.

The last time I saw them was just a couple of months ago at the Tommy Vance tribute night at the Albert Hall, along with the Scorpions. Both bands were great that night, but it was a special thrill seeing the Great Halford all leathered-up again and back where he belongs onstage with The Priest.

Anyway, that was yesterday... Today I'm off to Burton-on-the-Water with the family. The Venice of the Cotswolds, as it's known, it is also the official Home of Brum. And if you're under five you'll appreciate just how important and exciting that is. I just hope the whole town hasn't closed down for the England game later today. I like watching the World Cup too (on those rare occasions things quieten down enough around here for me to get the chance) but the sight of so many white-and-red flags makes my stomach turn. Let's hope Burton - also known sometimes by the charming colloquial expression Snobs Paradise - is devoid of such unnecessary Nazism.

Brum, brummmmm...

It's my birthday today so I have been exercising certain privileges. Like lying in bed reading this morning instead of being forced up at the crack of dawn by the sound of the children begging to be untied and fed. Instead, I lay in bed drinking birthday tea and reading Across The Great Divide, the Barney Hoskyns book about The Band. What a great book. Maybe I'm enjoying it because I don't know much about The Band - the only album with them on it I've ever owned was Before The Flood, the live double they made of their 74 US tour with Dylan. Whatever it is, I can't put the damn thing down. I've even sent off to Amazon for their first two albums, Music From Big Pink and The Band. I'm not suggesting you do the same but check out the book. Best thing I've read since White Bicycles by Joe Boyd.

Of course, no birthday would be complete without the obligatory 'surprise present' from The One I Love. This year, however, I was genuinely surprised - and delighted. A Sony digital radio with all the trimmings - CD player, tape-deck, lots of flashing lights and impressive-looking buttons. Spending so much time as I do sat here chipping away at the bottom of the word-mine, I long-ago grew bored with my own record collection, even the good gear you want chucking into the coffin with you when you go (Kind Of Blue, Blood On The Tracks, Mozart's Greatest Hits etc). I wouldn't part with any of it but I'm fucked if I actually want to sit here listening to it - again. So the radio is my salvation. Better then any Ipod, the endless variety and unpredictability of Radios 2, 3 and 4 (not to mention all the weird internet stations) is just the thing at 2.00a.m. when you're trying to think of something interesting to say about some rock star tossbag that you've already said far too many nice things about already over the last 30 odd fucking years.

That said, people do still send me music that can occasionally capture my interest. For some reason known only to the Great Postman in the Sky, someone sent me an album by someone called Evelyn Glennie the other day. Or Evelyn Glennie the Great Percussionist as the accompanying press release put it. So, bored, I played it and... wow, dooods, what a trip! Turns out Evelyn is the world's greatest percussionist. Seriously, never mind John Bonham and Keith Moon, this bint can make the things she hits actually swoon with emotion. I sat transfixed, a statue at the keyboard, for about 20 minutes before the sound of the dog barking at the neighbours brought me round.

Then you get days like today when, setting aside the birthday telegram from the Queen and the dozen red roses from Waxy, I found myself the proud recipient of two very different yet strangely similar CD collections. The first, a truly devilish confection I advise you not to listen to while there are young children in the vicinity called 'The Harvest Years 1970-1973' by the Electric Light Orchestra. A dreadful dirge enlivened only by the fact that you know no-one is ever going to buy it. The second, a much more pleasant, laugh-along little thing called 'Lucifer Rising - The Original Motion Picture Soundtrack' by Bobby Beausoleil.

Lucifer Rising, for those of you too young or too into melodic rock to know (i.e. not yet a fully evolved adult), is the film made by Kenneth Anger said to include 'real life' scenes of ritual human sacrifice set to the music of one Jimmy Page. More than 25 years ago I actually possessed a pirate video of this artefact. But much as I scrutinised it for tremble-tremble-ness I could never quite understand what all the fuss was about, while said music sounded like an angry flock of bees fighting over the honey. Noisy and atmospheric but actually a bit of a pain in the airholes after about five minutes.

Quite what any of that has to do with the CD that arrived this morning though I couldn't say. I'm playing it now as I write this and I must say it's quite, er... nice. Of course, if I'm found slumped over the keyboard, blood trickling from my ear tomorrow morning that opinion might have to be revised. But for now, well, it beats having to listen to Happy Fucking Birthday all day...

A long strange day full of dark grumblings and stark reminders. It began with a phone call warning me of someone in the business who is always nice to my face but who, they said, "Is not your friend." I only take warnings of this nature seriously if the source of the information is good. In this case it was impeccable, so that was depressing. Of course, people being nice to your face only to slag you off behind your back are commonplace not just in my business but in all walks of life. The rock biz is full of people like that though. Mainly those who outstay their welcome or whose talent was always very slender. You see them everywhere you go. They run in miserable, envious packs and thrive on each other's tedious, drunken company. I avoid them as much as I can but still they reach out to me with their vile little thoughts, their narrow nothing lives.

But then as that great sage Ross Halfin once said to me as we lay by the pool at the Sunset Marquis in LA, "What you have to remember Mick is that they're ALL cunts." Wise words indeed.

I was just getting over that wake-up call when I glanced at the website inbox to find a rash of emails from what can only be described as FUCKING NUTTERS. The internet is many things, most of them great, in my opinion. But it is also the last refuge of the Complete Lunatic and the Total Tosser, not to mention the Dangerously Sad. I'm not going to do these arse-munchers the honour of mentioning them by name here, as what they actually have to say is so mind-bogglingly off-centre (one example: some twat obviously still learning to read moaning that I was dragging Phil Lynott's name 'through the sand' because of my recent blog entry in which I took the piss out the inherently absurd process of being interviewed for a TV documentary about him). But I do wonder what it is they think they're doing firing off their badly-written little missives. Don't they have any lives of their own to be tending to? Whenever I come across a website I don't like I simply never go there again. If I see something by a writer I don't like I, er, don't read it. These poor cunts don't seem to have evolved enough for that though.

What does it all really matter though, I sat there asking myself. Later in the day I got my answer: absolutely nothing. A friend had phoned to say another mutual friend of ours is currently making funeral arrangements for her mother, who has just died of cancer. It's a cliche of course to say that that little piece of info put everything else I heard today into its proper perspective, but it's the cliches that keep us in our place often.

I'd like to end on an up note but I'm struggling to find one right this moment. Oh yes, New Guns N' Roses (like New Coke, geddit?) cancelled their show in Switzerland last night. The reason? According to my spies: Axl fractured an eyelash. Of course, they might be wrong or just saying one thing to my face and doing another behind my back. Waxy doubtless knows the feeling well...

Here's the sort of rock'n'roll story you don't hear every day. Went to see a fantastic podiatrist today, or chiropodist if you prefer - or foot doctor if you're just thick. My first time in such an establishment, I have to say I approached the whole thing with some trepidation. But I had to do something about the yellow claws dangling from my toes - and if you think that's too much information imagine what my poor wife has been going through every time I've tried playing footsie with her tattoo lately.

Anyway, in I trotted, plonked myself down, threw off my shoes and socks, donned my gasmask and... in walked a very nice man named Paul. Yes, that's what I thought too. But no, Paul turned out to be not just a man of some skill - a master of the quickfire clippers, a doyen of the fine-point file and veritable guru of the in-no-way-gay foot massage - but all-round good geezer and father of two (phew!). Not that I give a damn really, as long as my swamp-like tentacles get a good going over. But if there is going to be any funny stuff I just want everyone to know which side my bread's buttered, ya dig?

The best part though came when I slipped my shoes back on and walked out of there. Talk about gliding on a cushion of clouds. I'm telling ya, dooooods, forget the dope, for that real organic high get yerself a good foot doctor. Man, it reaches the parts your dealer doesn't even know exists...

Spent the day in a dark, hot, airless studio in darkest, hottest south-east London, being interviewed for a Thin Lizzy TV documentary. Being asked, 'What was it that made Thin Lizzy so special?' Um, er... the songs. No, the drugs. NO! The whole gang-vibe. Noooo... wait. I don't know. 'Well, what was it about Phil Lynott that made him so special?' Well... um (see above).

The fact is, it's almost impossible to put into words what it was like hanging out with the lucky black cat and his alley-cat mates. It was the songs, the drugs, the gang-thing... the times, the places... all of it strung together in that weird world we called the 70s. You can talk about it all you like but unless you already know what we're talking about you probably wont get it at all.

It did make me think that the only way I really know how to describe it is by writing it down. Which made me suddenly want to not be there anymore but back here, trying to put something down on the page that might one day last as long as one of Thin Lizzy's better songs. I might never come up with anything as memorable as 'The Boys Are Back In Town' but I might just manage a 'Jailbreak' - if you know what I mean.

Meanwhile, two contrasting emails. The first from someone called Tricia, who doesn't say where she's from but does say this: 'Re: your frequent references to Axl Rose. I love you. You poke his pretensions with such delicious irony and sarcasm. Fucker deserves it too.'

The second email comes from Robin from Glasgow, who asks: 'I get that Axl is his own worst enemy at times, but doesn't someone so obviously troubled deserve some sympathy?'

To which my response is this: I agree with you both. Tricia is right. The fucker does deserve it sometimes, especially when I'm told of the kids that were dragged crying out of the Hammersmith Apollo (where he didn't come onstage until nearly 11.00pm) by parents that simply couldn't afford to miss the last train home. On the other hand, Robin has a point too. This blog is primarily meant to entertain, not be necessarily 'fair' or 'balanced', but my own entirely subjective point of view. That said, Axl clearly does have issues. And if it's true what he has told interviewers in the past about his own abused childhood, those issues are clearly serious, deep-rooted and deserve a great deal of sympathy and understanding.

Indeed, I have been giving this question a great deal of thought these past few days. My conclusion: it's time someone stood up to the plate and tried to make sense of the Axl Rose story. The good, the bad and the ugly. And I think that person might be me. Because underneath all the piss-taking and fun, I actually feel like I know something about this guy. After nearly 30 years in this business - including three or four years there in the late 80s and early 90s where I did know this guy and his friends and band-mates - I feel like I've known him a long, long time. He's there in every recalcitrant, pig-headed, ego-driven rock star I've ever worked with. And, in some weird way, he's also there in every music-mad, fame-enflamed, shy, hero-worshipping, illusion-buying rock fan I've ever known (including the teenage me). He's there every time I lose my temper or find my head soaring over a piece of music I never knew existed before. Most of all, he's there when everything goes wrong and everybody thinks you're nothing but a fucking big-headed asshole. Shit, I even think I'm beginning to like this guy. The world would certainly be a duller place without him... right?

Either that or the heat really is starting to get to me...

A long day spent researching facts for the book I'm about to start writing. I love doing research, it's so much more fun than the actual writing part. Mainly, it's just reading so it never really feels like work to me. You don't have to shave or think about what clothes you're going to wear either because, baby, you ain't going nowhere. Just you, the desk and the computer. The time zips by though and it's easy to get to the end of the day feeling like you haven't really done much - but that you're exhausted just the same. There will be interviewing too at some stage, which can also be entertaining once you start, but setting the damn things up is a pain. For now, though, I'm like a librarian - phone permanently set to 'automatic answer', cup permanently filled with half-cold tea, a whole colourful world passing by my black-and-white window. Ah, the exciting life of the long-distance pro-writer...

The enforced quietude was only broken by my world-domination-obsessed brother Gerry calling to tell me it looks like Star Trippin' will going into HMV and Virgin megastores in the next few weeks. Today HMV and Virgin, tomorrow THE WORLD!! Well, sort of. You'll still be able to buy it cheaper via this website though, and get a signed copy. Something the money-grubbing hordes of Consumerville will not be able to offer. Bless 'em.

Also glanced at the Inbox and noticed emails starting to pile up from Visitors to This Site. I promise to sit down and bash out a few sharp responses in the next couple of days. I'm not ignoring you, I'm just temporarily 'in the hole', trying to work. It wont last...

Spent most of a beautiful sunny day sat here trying to write. Then got sidetracked checking out dates and names on the internet - cue two hours of nothingness. Finally threw the towel in and bundled everybody into the car and drove off to the Ridgeway. It's a wonderful place to walk the dog and the spot where we go, there's a long road shaded by trees that on a good day seems to stay empty for hours. Today was a good one and Linda and I were able to walk the dog back and forth while all three children slept in the back of the car. We'd left all the doors and windows open for them. It was first moment of peace we'd had together all week. It was almost but not quite like it used to be when we first met 10 years ago and we would walk the dogs up there on our own, boyfriend and girlfriend. Another lifetime.

Got home and started cooking dinner - then Ross called, bored on his way to Sheffield for the Def Leppard show. Being a photographer he really has to physically be there for everything, unlike me who can pontificate at a distance for most things these days. I don't envy him, though you just know he wouldn't have it any other way. He's a travelling man, always has been. He'll be on the road long after they've thrown the dirt on my coffin.

In the evening, watched the Rock Family Tree thing on the 'Birmingham scene' - less about the Birmingham scene and more about The Move, Wizzard and ELO - with a bit of Denny Laine throw in. Reminded me of my time working with Don Arden - who managed The Move, Wizzard and ELO - on his memoirs. Pity they didn't have him on, he'd have told them a few fucking stories. Put a curl in your hair they would. If you've ever watched his daughter Sharon on the X Factor and wondered how she has the nerve to say the things she does to artists, read Don's book Mr Big to find out. As her brother David once told me, "Sharon is just Don in a skirt."

Got asked today if I would like to write the sleeve notes for the forthcoming Judas Priest Very Best Of album. Said yes - of course! I've had fun teasing Priest in print over the years - because let's be honest, there is something wonderfully funny about them. But when it comes right down to it they are and always have been one of the greatest, most original heavy metal bands the world has ever seen. And now that Rob Halford is back with them they really are better, more evil than ever.

I saw them at the Albert Hall back in March when they headlined the Tommy Vance night and they were stunning, deafeningly brilliant. Rob in particular was magnificent. It took him about 20 minutes just to descend the stage stairs and make his way to the front of the stage, posing like a Greek statue and dressed like a killer android from Bladerunner - you could not take your eyes off him, not even for a second. Meanwhile, Glenn and KK just stood shoulder-to-shoulder down the front, ripping into those musical laser-guns like the demented metal junkies they are. God, it was thrilling. I noticed I was standing up shaking my fist at one point and had to pour an alcohol-free beer over my head just to calm myself down...

And to think, someone's going to pay me money to write about them. How much fun is that? Sometimes I can't believe my luck, I really can't.

Had a very pleasant midday rendezvous at the Sherlock Holmes Hotel in London with Scott Rowley, my successor as editor-in-chief at Classic Rock. It can be tricky meeting the bloke who took over your old gig, especially when the gig in question occupied most of your waking hours for several years - like getting to know your old girlfriend's new boyfriend. I expect it was a little weird for Scott too. He was such a gent though the whole thing was actually great fun. I thought we'd probably kick things around for an hour or so but in the end we were there for nearly three hours, laughing mostly - at Axl, at Bon Jovi, at life. We agreed we would do it again soon.

Got home to a phone call from Ross telling me gleefully about the 0/5 review of New Guns N' Roses in this week's issue of Kerrang!. I read it and have to say it made me laugh out loud. No doubt HEADS WILL ROLL when Axl reads it - he's such a sensitive soul. Ross was in such a good mood he started waffling on about me in his blog in connection with gay bald men with tattoos. He always does this when he's extra-happy. I can't think why. Fortunately I'm not a sensitive soul or I might be tempted to go and get myself some botox and a nice gold weave...

Spent most of the day doing that most unusual thing for a so-called writer - writing. Or rather, collating material for what will be the first couple of chapters of my next book. I can't say what it is just yet as there are still various bits of paper to be signed (soon, soon...) but it was nice to be back in the saddle again. The beginnings of a book are always the best, like the beginnings of any journey. You feel you still have time on your side even though you don't and you still believe it will be your best yet even though that isn't always true either.

It also meant I was able to throw a bit of music on in the background, which is a waste of time when you spend most of the day on the phone, which I've been doing too much of lately. I started working my way through the six re-released Captain Beefheart albums that EMI kindly sent me. Not everybody's cup of meat but pure honey for the likes of me. The received wisdom is that the Captain had already peaked (with 'Troust Mask Replica') long before he got to EMI in the early 70s, but he still cranked out some wild nut-bustin' stuff like 'Shiny Beast (Bat Chain Puller)' and 'Ice Cream For Crow'. Don't go near it if your idea of out-there is an old Metallica album, but good gear for those of us who like our steaks served up still swimming in pools of blood.

At the end of the day I checked in with my email to find several from readers of this blog banging on about the podcast idea I mentioned - the weekly war stories thing. So many it looks like I might give it a go - but they will probably have to come with some sort of adult-listening virtual-sticker or something. Gerry is looking into the technology and I am preparing to climb the ladder into the attic where all my old diaries are kept under rusty lock-and-key. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Right, now it's back to the Captain. 'The Thousandth And Tenth Day Of The Human Totem Pole' has just come on and I feel obliged to turn it up and treat the neighbours...

A lovely day in London prancing around being A Writer. First stop, though, the doctor's. Had a wake-up call last year when it became apparent I wouldn't be able to burn the candle at both ends anymore - or not without blowing the whole thing out anyway. Since then, I have been obliged to make the occasional visit to Dr Feelgood's salon. Fortunately for the world's rock readership, he gave me a clean bill of health - followed by an even cleaner and somewhat larger bill for his services.

I celebrated by taking a taxi down to Covent Garden where I had lunch at Jo Allen's with my literary agent, Robert Kirby. Robert is London's Greatest Living Agent, at least that's what he's always told me and I believe him. Indeed, his famous client list is so long I'm lucky to get a mention at the bottom of page 7. He's so successful, in fact, he doesn't even mind that I've started this website and put out Star Trippin' on my own. He even paid me the highest compliment possible for any budding publisher having lunch with a big-time agent by letting me pick up the tab. Ah yes, you can learn a lot hanging around a man like that...

On the train home get a call from a friend asking me why I didn't go to the Kerrang! 25th anniversary party last night. Shit, was that last night? Oh well, probably just as well I missed it. I like the kids there now, especially that nice Daniel Lane. But the thought of bumping into some of the sad old grizzlies I used to work with way back yonder is enough to send me running back to the doctor's for something to calm me down.

When I finally got home it was raining and I was obliged to phone Linda and beg her to come and pick me up in the car. She arrived 20 minutes later trailing screaming children and barking dog - welcome home, daddy. Arrived back here in my office to a message from my power-mad brother informing me that Webmistress Julie has officially Gone Missing (i.e. not got back from the Isle of Wight yet) but that she has emailed him to say she should be able to help put some of the new reviews and things of Star Trippin' up on this site sometime before Xmas. Bear in mind, this is a woman who consorts with wolves (and sends me pictures to prove it) so anything she wants is fine by me, bro..

Gotta go now as I need to help the girls choose which episode of Max & Ruby to watch before bedtime. Either that or the episode of Doctor Who where the Devil rises up to KILL US ALL. Bless 'em...

Crazy hot sweaty fucked-up day... everybody I talked to seemed to be suffering heat-stroke, every conversation descending into sticky, curled-round-the-edges madness. England just cannot handle heat like this, no more than it can handle snow. People start dying or going insane. Spoke to Ross who was SO STRESSED he was NOT IN THE MOOD FOR CHAT! He phoned me twice to tell me that. Then some woman from the local VAT office rang to say she needed to inspect my books "NOW!" "Is there some urgency," I asked? "A problem, perhaps?" "NO!" she screamed. Nice people, the VAT. Ask anyone...

At least Ross had the decency to ring me back in a better mood this afternoon. He's trying to sort me out some work, bless him. He has been doing this for nearly 30 years now. The first time he ever phoned me was in 1978, when we were both teenage nubies at Sounds magazine. He was phoning to see if I wanted to review UFO, who he had taken some "fucking great pictures of." He had, too. And yes, I did end up reviewing them.

Anyway, before I get lost wandering down memory lane, I must send my congratulations to Axl who not only managed to avoid being late getting New Guns N' Roses on stage at the Download festival last night, but actually started the show HALF AN HOUR EARLY! I'm convinced he's reading this blog and only did it to make a mockery of my earlier prediction that they wouldn't come on till midnight. I'm pleased actually, as it shows how much he still cares about me, bless his cute little gold locks. Let's see how long he manages to keep it up for the rest of the UK dates, though. Personally, I still don't think he'll make it through the world tour this year, or that 'Chinese Takeaway' will ever be released. (Or maybe I'm just saying that Waxy because the men in suits are paying me too, in order to make you even more determined to deliver.) Not that I'm saying he's paranoid or anything...

Meanwhile, back at my Inbox, dozens of you apparently had nothing better to do this weekend than send me an email. Especially memorable was the one from Janelle Ladina from Atlanta, Georgia, who ended a very touching message by inviting me over for "a bit of home-style southern cooking and a couple of toddies" the next time I'm in "the neighbourhood." She even says I can "bring your buddy Ross." I hear it's even hotter in Georgia than it is here, which must explain it.

Also got one from Famous Record Producer Kevin Shirley, who took me to task over my spelling before admitting he hasn't bought a copy of Star Trippin' "yet" as he's down to his last million. I can't really complain as he has also put a link up to this site on his own. I will return the favour if Julie ever gets back from the Isle of Wight. Or the "Isle of Wrong," as Waxy so hilariously called it at Download. He's so funny that boy, he could be the new Ozzy. Or Sharon...

Was just settling down in the deckchair in the garden for a nice kip this morning when Ross Halfin called to tell me Star Trippin' had been reviewed in today's Guardian - in The Guide section. A good review, too. ("The style is earthy and unpretentious...") That's two good reviews in one week - the Kerrang! one described my "style" as "confrontational, irreverent, self-indulgent but ultimately insightful" - what have I done to deserve this? As soon as Mistress Julie returns from ogling Goldfrapp at the Isle of Wight festival I'll ask her nicely to put proper extracts from them both up here somewhere.

Then my media-mogul brother Gerry called me to tell me we should start doing a podcast each week. Says I should unearth my blood-spattered old diaries from the 80s and see if anyone out there is interested in listening to me tell a few war stories. Well... is anyone out there interested? I'm not going to sit down and start doing something like that just to diddle myself in front of the mirror. Especially not the kind of thing Gerry is talking about(the deep, deep shit). If enough of you are interested though, I might consider it. Let me know...

When I finally got off the phone my tea had gone cold, the newspaper had blown away, Linda and the kids had returned from the shops - and there went my so-called quiet moment in the sun. I realised as I fought off the squiddly-diddlies that I have been waiting for my metaphorical "rest" for about 20 years now, and that basically I'm just not gonna get it. Not till they carry me out of here anyway, which might be sooner than they think if my wife doesn't shut up about getting a new car/dishwasher/gardener/double-glazing/tattoo/what-the-fuck...

That's the trouble with having a young wife. They still think life can be improved by "things". It's only us old gits that know the awful truth. What's the secret of life? Death. There, now, I've said it. Now tiptoe off and leave me to my shade...

Another long day in the sun by the river in Teddington. Been working on Project X with Jon Hotten, my old Classic Rock (and Kerrang) mate. Now I am knackered - especially as Jon has been walking me like a dog every lunch time. Not only does he take me to the sandwich shop Furthest Away but he's got such long legs I literally have to trot alongside him to keep up. Another week of that and the bastard would have to have given me a piggyback.

Speaking of panting like a dog, read a great review in the Telegraph today of the New Guns N' Roses gig at Hammersmith Odeon the other night. It seems Waxy was so out of breath after three numbers he could hardly string a sentence together. Well, he's not young anymore, you know. And that expensive gold weave must way a ton. The review concluded by pointing out the irony of New Guns ending their set with 'Nightrain' as it was gone 1.00am by then and all the trains had stopped running! God, it must be fun being a New Guns fan.

Here's a prediction for you: they don't come on until nearly midnight again at the Download festival this Sunday - at which point the local council will either pull the plugs and Waxy will start smashing up his toys again, or the powers that be will let the spoiled child get on with it rather than risk a riot from the crowd. Here's another prediction: they'll never get through the European tour and the 'Chinese Democracy' album will not come out this year.

Ground control to Major Tom... no blog yesterday cos there was something wrong with the machine powering the controls - or something. No way of knowing either if this will survive the test and make it on screen. But assuming the best...

Ironically, can't say much about what I've been doing for the past couple of days anyway because it involves a Top Secret mission involving a Major Rock Band. What I can say is that it has also involved swanning around at the old TV studios by the river Thames in Teddington. Beautiful weather for it too. Sun with hat off, blue sky aching away, water with hardly a ripple on it. This is where Benny Hill used to make his show in the 70s and if you squint hard enough you can almost see him running up and down the banks of the river at double-speed chased by a long line of scantily-clad 'lovlies'.

I also saw Kerrang! magazine today with the KKKKK-review of Star Trippin' in it. Julie my Webmistress is too busy getting ready to go to the Isle of Wight festival (mad impetuous fool) to put it up on the site this week but perhaps if I ask her nicely she'll sort it out for next. I've also been invited to the Kerrang! 25th anniversary party next Monday, which is jolly nice of them considering they've never invited me to anything - not since I couldn't be bothered to turn up for the 10th anniversary party many weird moons ago. But I was young then, sort of, and my head was on wrong.

Oh, and New Guns N' Roses played in London last night. Ross Halfin rang me last thing and asked me if I wanted to go - even though we both knew we were not welcome. We were all set to go just for the fuck of it but then we got tipped off they wouldn't be coming on till nearly midnight and we decided we weren't actually that interested - especially not after someone played me the downloads of the truly average new tunes. Turns out they didn't come on til 11.00pm, which must have been nice for those kids that had been waiting around since 7.30pm. Still, I hear the band got heavily fined for breaking the 11.00pm curfew - serve the silly fuckers right. Why Waxy thinks it's so big and clever to make things so painful for everybody God only knows. And him a supposedly grown-up 45-year-old man too. Get a fucking grip, doood. That shit went out with LSD-in-the-water...

Went to London and visited Planet Rock today - the UK's only classic rock station, as the station ID which I've now got imprinted on my mind goes. I was the guest on the My Planet Rocks show, in which I got to choose all the music and tell a few stories. The programme will go out sometime around the end of July, beginning of August, said Liz the very nice producer. Planet Rock is digital, which means you'll find it on digital radio (natch), Sky TV and all the other cable/satlellite platforms, and the internet too, so I'll post plenty of warning. Meantime, check the station out, for my money it's easily the best all-rock station out there - and that includes the American ones (most of which have turned to mush since Clearchannel bought them all up and turned them into one big ad for spot cream). I'll put up a link to the Planet Rock website later this week...

After we finished recording, Trevor White, the big boss, took me out to lunch at HaHa's in Oxford Circus. Trevor used to be the producer of my Saturday night show on Capital Radio waaay back in the day, and it was great seeing him again. I was going to say that apart from the greying hair and the extra laugh-lines the years have added, he hasn't changed a bit but of course that's not true. In the old days, Trev and I would go to the pub and sink a few pints before I went on air, then smoke our way through two packs of ciggies while I slurred my way through the show (I exaggerate only a little). Trev still likes a beer (so do I but I'm not allowed them) but the ciggies are long gone (for me too). Not that he lets it get him down. I find that as people get older they tend to get funnier or sadder. Trev has definitely got funnier. We parted by saying we should try and work together again. I wonder if we will...

Got a phone call on my way home asking if I would be interviewed for a Thin Lizzy TV documentary. Said yes, then sat there on the train thinking about Phil Lynott. I wasn't his best friend, or even a close friend, but I was a friend for a few years in the late 70s, early 80s. Poor fucker, going like he did. If he'd hung on and got straight, him and Lizzy would probably have been bigger than ever these days. I talked to Gary Moore about this just a few months ago and he said if Phil was still here he'd have probably checked into the Priory - even if it was just to pull Kate Moss. And he'd have done us all a favour and stuck one on Pete Doherty's chin too. How very true.

It seems this blog has started an unfortunate trend - people sending me emails that haven't actually bought Star Trippin'. Is this some sort of joke? A new way to taunt an old man? Don't these misers realise I have a young wife and several tattoos to support? No to mention the ankle-biters. What am I to feed them - your good wishes?

Take Hannah from Devon, in England, who complains she can't afford the book because she's only 16, then has the gall to ask "what advice-if-any" I have on how to get into "music journalism". Well, for a start, BUY THE FUCKING BOOK! I bet you've got money for earrings, pop CDs and thongs, but what will you learn from these things? Whereas if you BUY THE FUCKING BOOK you will have a useful tool not only to keep you entertained as you sit in the sun this summer but a wonderful example of "music journalism" the way it used to be done before the marketing monkeys and demographic demigods got their talent-free hands on the whole wretched deal. Other than that - don't sleep with any of the bands. Ever. The rock biz is more chauvinistic than hip-hop and it will be hard enough to get taken seriously as a female without ruining your chances completely.

Then there's Tony Mastromarino from Glastonbury in Connecticut who claims to have "enjoyed" my "work" since Kerrang days, when he was still a grad-student at university in New York. Very nice for him too. Then he goes and spoils it all by saying something stupid like "I haven't yet purchased my copy of Star Trippin'..." See what I mean by taunting me? No wonder my babies are all crying.

This demoralising trend continues with a missive from Gustavo from Venezuela, who witters on about once meeting Ross Halfin, when Iron Maiden toured the country, and how Ross had such bad guts his "insides attacked." This certainly sounds like something that might happen when you meet Ross, but before I can savour the image Gustavo adds something about the book and how he will "try to buy it soon." Point and click, mate. How hard can it be?

Much more agreeable is this one from Neil Daniels from Merseyside, who begins his email in the correct manner with the words - look and learn Hannah/Tony/Gustavo/the rest of you - "Hi Mick, I bought a copy of Star Trippin' yesterday..." A proper email at last from a proper reader. Suddenly the sound of the children's small empty bellies rumbling is a tad more bearable. We will eat tonight kids! Uncle Neil still cares...

Apart from half an hour in the garden trying to sunbathe before being nagged back inside by my wife who somehow doesn't like it if I'm enjoying myself while she's doing housework, I spent what seems like the rest of the day on the phone. First to Gerry, who has kindly sent me some mega-anti-virus software which only takes about two days to install, then to Ross Halfin who regaled with me very funny stories of the Gods of Metal festival in Milan this weekend.

For the full story you'll have to check out Ross's website (always worth a look anyway) but suffice to say any Ross story that involves Joe Elliot having a small drink after the show, David Coverdale have a little pout during the show, and Lemmy having a large anything night-and-day is guaranteed to have me winnying like a horse with laughter.

Peter Makowski was with him and it was good to talk to him too. Pete was a Legendary Rock Writer when I was still running round the school playground dreaming of being George Best. I've been trying to pursuade him to write his memoirs for years - exactly the kind of book I would steal if I had to, to get my hands on it. For the life and for the writing - the authentic voice of 70s rock cool. And uncool.

Listening to the pair of them, it almost made me want to saddle up my bad motor scooter and get on out there again too. Then they asked me if I wanted to go and see Mountain tonight (who are apparently playing some country club in Surrey) and I realised that actually I might not be quite as ready to rock again as I'd like to be. Still nursing the old war wounds. Who knows, though, a comeback may yet be on the horizon. As I have learnt over the years, never say never. Not when Ross is the one doing the asking anyway...

One of those very rare events - a beautiful sunny day and no work to do. My first Saturday off, in fact, for literally months.

Instead, I go and watch the girls being pretty fairy princesses at dance class in the morning, then come home to lunch and lying around sunbathing in the garden. It's the first time I've done that since we bought the house! Felt almost illicit, like doing something you shouldn't. Sat around with sun lotion on signing 200 copies of Star Trippin' for this website. Then drove to Reading services with the whole family where we met my brother publisher Gerry to give him the books and pick up 200 more - the halfway point between where he lives in rock-on London and where I live in piss-off Oxfordshire. Ended up sitting around in the sun chatting for over an hour. We haven't always got on through the years but the book has really brought us together.

It was such fun the girls didn't even freak out when it became apparent we were going to miss Doctor Who. Bought them a burger and a coke instead. Not healthy, in the physical sense maybe, but very healthy in the let's-make-this-day-last-a-little-longer sense. Drove home over the downs slowly through spectacular sunlit views.

That's when I remembered that the Monsters of Rock festival was on today, the sort of thing that once upon a time I would have been aghast to miss. Not any-fucking-more, rock-loons. The thought of being stuck in the backstage area with a lot of drunk journalists and their ugly wives and girlfriends lost its appeal long ago. Milton Keynes Bowl was not where the real Monsters show used to happen anyway, that was Donington. You can't bring back the past - and thank fuck for that, say I.

Finished the Guns N' Roses story for the French mag. Ce'st magnifique! Well, sort of. It's really hard to write about a non-existent group, especially when every magazine/radio station/TV/dickhead is desperate to keep up the pretense that this really isn't just the Axl Rose Band but the Guns N' Roses of legend that they have all heard of but never actually saw or knew much about while the real thing was still going. Will the Axl solo album ever be released? Who cares? That band he used to be in all ran off and left him years ago. I predict no riot at all when it's finally released.

Spent the rest of the day back in the real world helping look after our baby son who is going through agony teething. Our three-year-old daughter has also come down with something nasty and there has been so much screaming and crying going on here all day the neighbours have started peering through the window to see what the bad parents are up to now. Only the five-year-old has so far escaped the onslaught of sickness and pain and we're watching her for signs...

Been trying all day to write this piece on Guns N' Roses - or the karaoke band currently posing as them - and though I know what I want to say it seems to be taking me far too long to say it. Familiar problem to writers, especially old ones who have probably said it all a million times before in a million different ways and just need taking outside and shooting like the old dogs they are. It should have been finished and sent by now and it's not. Jesus. I have been writing about Waxy and his chums for almost 20 years now, you might have thought I'd got the hang of it by now. But no. I still sit here struggling while King Rose parades around the stage wearing no clothes as his faithful subjects look on thinking they see something they don't. Talk about using your illusion...

Instead I click on the email and find a nice message from someone called Clinton P. Desveaux from Cow Bay in Nova Scotia, Canada, who tells me he has been, I quote, 'glued to the website like a rock star to nose candy'. A nice turn of phrase. Maybe he can help me write the GN'R piece. It's for a French mag too and he probably speaks French, all those fancy-named Canadians do, right? I imagine us sitting outside some cafe smoking gitanes laced with strong Afghani black and drinking heavy-duty French coffee with cognac chasers. What a fucking story we would write then! A couple of Parisian hookers by our side in torn stockings and see-through bras, like something out of a Henry Miller story circa 1935. What do ya reckon, Clinton? Are we on?

Then I got a very cool email from Daniel Lane at Kerrang! magazine, giving me a sneak peek at the five-K review he has written of Star Trippin' which he says is going to be in next week's issue. Suddenly all thoughts of anything else are gone. It's over 15 years and many more lifetimes ago since I left that magazine, but I am still as chuffed as Axl's hair-weave to see the book getting such treatment in there of all places. Like the world isn't such a stinkhole after all. Sad, really, but there you go. I send Dan an email telling him how touched I am - and that as soon as it's published I'm going to put it up on this site.

Right, now back to my old mate Axl. I wonder if he still reads his reviews in Kerrang? (I bet he does...)